Burning Cold
by ASongInMyHead
Summary: Paff's life would have perhaps been easier, if only she had not been so loved.


_Here is how it begins:_

You are treasured from the moment of your birth; the youngest of five children with doting parents. Your mother has sea-glass eyes and yellow hair that tickles your nose when she kisses your forehead. Your father has an easy laugh and calloused hands that he uses to gently twist your hair into plaits. Your brothers and sisters let you ride on their shoulders and tell you ghost stories that make you squirm with exaggerated fear. You run barefoot in the back alleys of Del, but eagerly attend to the studies your parents enforce.

Your name, your mother tells you, means 'bright star' in a Plains language that died out generations ago.

"My bright star," she says, tapping your nose playfully. "My sweet Paff."

Although your house is always warm and bright, the world outside your door is not always kind. A shadow fell upon Del when you were too young to remember. You have a large family, and although you are better off than some of your neighbours, there are days when there is not enough food on the table to nourish your growing body. But these days are rare, and you are too young to notice how your parents pull you closer when Grey Guards pass; too young to understand what your father means when he speaks of a coward called Endon.

Instead, you grow up. Your siblings tease you, but never unkindly. You play with the neighbourhood children and groan when your parents call you home for supper. Your childhood is simple, uneventful, and wonderfully happy.

Later, much later, you will wonder if this childhood had weakened you. You were loved, you were _so_ loved. Had you not been so happy, you would have not fallen so far. Had you not known what it meant to love so deeply, you would have not have allowed hate to consume you so wholly.

 _Here is how it happens:_

Sometimes there is no warning, no reason. Your parents have never spoken out against the occupation. Your siblings are not friends with any of the dozens of youths executed for attempting to assault Grey Guards. Sometimes there is no reason at all.

They come in the night. You wake to the sound of deep, loud voices and stomping boots. You sit up in bed, frozen from shock and fear. Your two sisters awaken as well, and your eldest throws off her covers and grabs the heavy water jug from the dresser. She dumps the water onto the floor and hisses at you and Verlaine to hide. Before you can move, the door slams open and three Grey Guards enter your bedroom. With a cry, your sister swings the water jug at the closest Guard. He laughs and grabs her thin arm with a massive hand. She cries out as you still sit frozen in your bed. Without hesitation, another Guard draws his sword and plunges it into her belly. As if a spell has broken, Verlaine leaps from her bed to yours and gathers you into her arms. She holds you like that, even as the Grey Guards force you from the bed and towards the door. As you pass you see your eldest sister's body crumpled on the floor. A gorge rises in your throat, and you cling tightly to Verlaine as horrified tears stream down your face.

Your family is on their knees in the living room. Your middle brother is bleeding from his nose and your father has a split lip.

"Alma…," you choke out. "She is…"

"She is dead," Verlaine finishes with a sob, and your mother lets out a terrible keen that you hear in your mind until the day you die.

Outside, the night sky is stained with pink as the sun begins to rise upon your thirteenth birthday.

The journey to the Shadowlands is long and hard. The Grey Guards feed you mouldy bread and hard cheese, washed down with a little water. Chains weigh down your body and your feet blister and bleed. Every footstep is an effort, but they set a quick pace and let you rest only enough to keep you upright on your feet. You want to cry all the time, but you are too thirsty to waste the tears.

One night you wake to your middle brother gently shaking your shoulder. The whites of his eyes glint in the moonlight.

"What is it, Neel?" you ask, as a shiver of fear travels up your spine.

"The Guards have gone to a stream to fill their flasks," he whispers excitedly. "If we wake the others we might be able to run. But make haste, they will soon return." He rises to his feet and the chains binding his hands clink as he walks over to your father. As he turns, you see the shapes of ten men moving swiftly toward you in the darkness.

"Neel!" you scream, but it is useless. One of the Guards raises an arm and throws something large and round. A blister, you realise, sick with terror.

The blister hits Neel's back and bursts with a horrifying wet sound. Neel screams and falls to the ground, writhing in pain. The rest of your family wakes to the sounds of your brother's dying screams. Your father staggers to Neel with a cry and Neel shrieks as he pulls him into his arms. Neel's hands are stiff claws and he scratches at your father's face, blind and mad with pain and fear. Slowly, Neel's frantic movements slow and his screams weaken until he is quiet and still. Your father buries his face in your brother's hair and you can see his shoulders shake as he weeps. Your mother is silent as she stares at her son, her face a twisted mask of anguish. You scramble on your hands and knees to your two remaining siblings and cling to their arms. Your oldest brother's face is tight with rage and silent tears run down your sister's. You look down at Neel, half-hidden by your father. His eyes are open and bloody froth stains his lips. Someone is panting loudly, and you realise that it is you.

"Get up, scum," the Guard who killed your brother snarls. "It's time to move."

Your brother pulls you to your feet and you cling to him as hard as your chains allow. Something awful squirms in your belly, something cold and terrible that you do not yet understand.

You will become familiar with this feeling over the years. One day, not yet, the cold will invade your veins like a sickness, until it becomes what you eat and breathe. It will twist your mind until you can think and feel nothing else. This feeling will become your friend; your lover; your family. This, you discover, as you are dragged away from Neel's twisted corpse, is hate.

Within two days you arrive at the Shadowlands.

You sleep in a large cell with what remains of your family, and at least thirty other people. The room is damp and the straw bedding is slimy under your skin. On the third night you wake screaming as a spider nearly the size of your fist crawls up your arm. A woman in the back of the cell cries loudly every night; huge, wracking sobs that make you want to shake her. Sometimes the Grey Guards pull you from the cell to perform seemingly useless acts of labour. There are no windows, and days and nights bleed into each other.

Months pass, perhaps even a year. Your days are filled with pain and fear. The crying woman is pulled from the cell one night and never seen again. These disappearances are not too uncommon. Whispers spread of executions, and worse, of the deaths of prisoners as a form of entertainment. You hear of the Vraal, a terrible monster that prisoners are forced to fight for the pleasure of the Shadow Lord. The only thing that keeps you from madness are the remains of your family. Your mother does not speak much anymore, but you understand by the way she strokes your hair that she is doing her best. Your father tells old stories you have heard dozens of times in your childhood, and your siblings devise games and jokes that sometimes manage to make you smile.

But this does not last.

It is daytime— or at least, you believe it is. You have slept through much of the day— you do that a lot, for there is little else to occupy your time. When the Grey Guards unlock the cell, you shrink back on instinct. There are four of them, and they scan the room as if looking for something. The one closest to you eyes your family in a way that makes you feel sick.

"How about these?" he nods to your father and Verlaine. "They look strong enough to put up a fight."

Beside you, you can hear your sister's breath in shallow gasps. You both know what those words mean. She screams as the Guard pulls her roughly to her feet.

"Verlaine!" you cry. You scramble towards her, clutching at the strong arms that hold her.

"Stop, Paff," she pleads, tears streaming down her face. "You will make it worse!"

You do not let go, you cannot let go. Another Guard pushes forward and strikes you across the face. You fall back onto the floor, blood welling from your mouth where you bit down hard on your tongue. You watch numbly as the Guards pull Verlaine and your father out of the cell. Your father's eyes stay on your mother until the door slams shut.

Your mother lies on the straw-bedded floor and curls into herself like a dying animal. You turn to Nic, your oldest sibling and now your last, and see your anguish mirrored in his eyes. He pulls you close and you feel him weeping into your shoulder. You know that you should be crying too. You know that you should feel sorrow. But instead you feel that sick and cold sensation once more. It spreads this time from your belly to your heart. The cut in your mouth pulses, but you do not feel the pain.

Years pass like this. Death and pain become routine. You become accustomed to violence and blood. You are older now than Alma ever got to be. You sometimes remember words like _hope_ and _happiness_ and _warmth_ , but you cannot remember what it felt like to know them. The cold hate that lives inside of you is a constant companion. Your brother tries to coax you into smiling, and even your mother sometimes wakes from her haze to look at you with concern. You know you should tell them that you are fine, but you love them and you have never once told them a lie.

Rumours fly. Some say to keep hope, for Endon's child has reclaimed the Belt of Deltora and has driven the Shadow Lord from the kingdom. You care not for these rumours and remember the words you had heard your father speak against the royal family. Even if this supposed new king is real, he cares nothing for his people who suffer and die far from home.

An illness spreads through your cell. The Grey Guards collect two bodies the morning after it strikes, and five more the next day. One night you wake to a terrible ache in your arms and legs. You try to sit up, but your body convulses and you fall back onto the straw. You manage to turn your head, and the room spins around you. You see your mother, lying beside you. She is awake, but her face is white and her hair is sweaty and limp. Her lips silently form your name, as if she does not have the strength to speak. Your vision fogs and you are pulled down by the darkness.

You do not know how long it has been when you next wake. The room still spins when you open your eyes, and you groan in pain. You force yourself to sit up, even as your arms shake and sweat pours down your back. You look over to where your mother sleeps and wish you had not. She is still, so still.

"Mother," you croak, and drag yourself closer. It hurts to breathe, hurts to speak, hurts to _be_. Your mother's eyes are half open and her lips are parted. A fly lands on her cheek and you wave it away.

 _No no no no no no no._

With a massive amount of effort, you roll onto your other side. Your brother too lies where he had been last time you were awake, his eyes staring sightlessly at the ceiling.

"Nic?" you cry and shake his shoulder. "Nic, stop. Stop it, Nic, stop it, Mother. Please. Please, please, please. Stop it, stop it."

You have not cried in years, but you cry now, painful sobs as you lean over Nic's body and clutch your mother's hand.

When your tears are dry and your heart is empty, you let them go and stagger to your feet. No one, you realise, has responded to your cries. You stare at the other occupants through the watery light that bleeds into the cell from a crack in the door. You do not hear the whimpers of the ill, or the gentle breathing of the sleeping. More than two dozen people lie in this room, and you are the only one left whose heart still beats. You fall onto your hands and knees and scream into the filthy straw.

The Grey Guards come to collect the bodies. They perform the task as if they are sitting in a pub: chatting and laughing as they drag the corpses away. When they move to take your mother and brother, you fly at them, spitting and screaming and scratching with your fingernails. They laugh, and you are shoved down to the floor. When all of the bodies are gone they shut the door and leave you alone in the darkness. You scream through the last of your fever, until your throat is ragged and raw and you are left with nothing but the taste of blood in your mouth.

You are alone for the first time in your life. Twice a day you are brought food and water. You say nothing to the Guards who come in, and you eat very little. You do nothing but sit against the damp wall and stare across the cell. You do not feel hunger or grief or fear. Days and days pass like this, until a new man brings you your meal. You know at once that he is not a Grey Guard—he is too thin, too tall. You wonder dully if he has come to kill you. You wonder if you care.

He kneels next to you, and you raise your head to meet his pale eyes.

"What is your name?" he asks, and patiently repeats the question three times when you do not respond.

"Paff," you finally whisper.

"Paff," he repeats, and you squeeze your eyes shut, remembering those who had once called you by that name. "I know what you are feeling. You grieve for what you have lost. You are afraid of what will come. You are filled with hate for what has happened."

You meet his eyes again at his last words, and he smiles.

"The people of Deltora prosper under their new king," he says "while you have faced horrors they could never imagine. Do you think that is fair?"

Your hands curl into fists, fingernails pressing into flesh. "No."

He smiles wider. "They live in peace, while you have watched your family die, one by one. Do you think that is fair?"

Blood pounds in your ears. "No."

"You feel hopeless right now. But you do not have to. I cannot bring your family back, but I can make it hurt less."

"How?"

"I know how to help you get vengeance on those who did nothing while your family died. Would you like to know how?"

You try to remember the faces of your family, but all you see is red. You nod.

"Come with me," the man says, and reaches out his hand. "There is someone who wants to meet you. Someone who can help."

You take the offered hand and allow your heart to harden.

 _Here is how it ends:_

You have failed. You have lost. You can feel your Master's disappointment vibrating in your bones.

You have nothing.

You are nothing.

The king stands above you, his dark eyes flickering as if he can find answers to the questions he keeps asking you etched on your face. He speaks but you hardly hear him.

Despair feels like drowning.

You want to gasp for air, but it is as if your lungs are blocked. You want to scream, but it is as if your throat has closed. You are heavy with exhaustion.

You had such hopes.

You tried so hard.

You are so _tired_ , and you just to sleep. But there is one last task you must perform. You summon your last scrap of strength and lunge at the king. He cries out and tries to move away, but you want to die more than he wants you to live. Your hands touch the Belt of Deltora, and pain explodes in your fingers and travels hungrily down the length of your body. It is as if you are burning and freezing to death at once. Your body convulses and begs you to let go, but you do not. The death you have chosen is unbearable and all-consuming, but you will see it through. The pain tears through you and you scream. You scream for the agony; for the life you were denied; for the little girl who knew nothing of hate; for the woman who was consumed by it.

The world falls away.


End file.
